“Ok,” I say, before walking into the building where a woman with Windex eyes is staring at me like I owe her something.

“Are you Mr. Landver’s son?”

I answer her emphatically, “I am.”

“Are you still using the valet or has your father allowed you to use his parking spot?”  Ah, lady, did you not hear that my unit was flooded? ”Here you are, sir,” she says, slipping me a notification slip, “I was going to slide this under your door.”

I shake my head and proceed to the elevator. Upon entering my father’s home, I am stunned by the two intruders inside of my humble universe, an industrial fan and a strange pump with a snorkel connected to the drain inside of my father’s sink. They’re blisteringly loud and there’s no way I will be able to concentrate with these two snoring all night. The notification letter says not to turn anything off until after a consultation with the head engineer. Risking an altercation with my father is out of the question so I have no choice but to return back to the basement. Okay. On the way out I happen to notice that one half of the sink is full with dishes, and I check to see why. Turns out that the snorkel is connected to the drain in one of the sinks. My father has one of those sinks that’s partitioned into two sections, both equally spacious and functional. On further inspection I notice that the dishes have not only been assembled neatly into the sink, but they are, rather suspiciously, clean. Could this really be? I open the refrigerator, half expecting my broccoli soup to be absent. But there it is, on the second level of the ‘fridge.

“Be right back,” I whisper to the soup.

Back in the basement now I’m heading into the garage when I hear something primal coming from the laundry room. “Help, help, help,” the voice says. “I’m stuck.” He says the last part heaving, trying to shove the door open and failing, so I believe him.

“What happened?” I ask him.

“Door won’t open.”

I proceed with trepidation, unsure what’s really behind the door. “I can’t see you, sir. Can you come a little closer?”

“This is as close as I can get,” he says with a tremble.

I can see now that he’s an elderly gentleman, but with two giant machines ready to ruin my quiet evening, lessons I have learned from situations equally as unpredictable, and the broccoli soup, I am in no mood to debate.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, and I leave the old man in the laundry room.

I take the elevator one floor up to the lobby, alerting the pot bellied Russian doorman, Serge. We go back down, and after one look at the issue, inept Serge figures it’s too complicated. So together we proceed to the garage to find the engineer to rescue the old man stuck in the laundry room. We find him, rather quickly, and the old dingbat rolls his better eye in consternation. Was he annoyed to have to see me again? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to let him know that I was grateful for his mitzvah with the dishes.

“I want to thank you for doing that.”

“No problem,” he says, then mumbles something about how the man in the laundry room deserves to be stuck in there.

“What about the machines in my living room?” I finally ask, after the old man is rescued. “The piece of paper says I’m supposed to keep them on all night, but I want to watch the Lakers game and try to finish editing my film.”

“Is the carpet dry?” he says.

“Almost.”

“Okay, you can turn it off.”

“I’ll keep the other thing on,” I say like I’m doing him a favor, “the snorkel thing plugged into my sink.”

“The dehumidifier?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, and off he goes, on his way back to the garage while I make a quick dash to the elevator before the old man who I failed to rescue can join me. On the lobby level the elevator stops and a middle aged woman in sandals and a big toe that could use a little sanding comes inside. Apparently her apartment has also been effected by the broken pipe. “I’m directly below you,” she says, “and your leak would have never been discovered if I wasn’t at home when it happened. The damage could have been more severe.” I’m thinking about my soup and she can tell. “Are you going to contribute to the Christmas fund?” she asks as she picks a hair clip out of her curls. “They’re asking all the tenants to make donations for the staff.”

“I was thinking like 50 bucks, lady.” The elevator shakes to a stop. “What was that?”

“I’m one floor below you,” she says with a smile, and then leaves me alone for the remainder of the short ride up.

It feels good turning off the fan. I am correct in my assessment. It is the noisier of the two machines and turning it off feels like I am utilizing my survival instincts. The reality is that the apartment is big enough that, if I wanted to, I could avoid it. In fact I have enough space to pretend it doesn’t exist, if I want. It’s actually shaping up to be a pretty decent night, and the best part is still waiting for me in all it’s gooey green goodness. I prepare for this by going through a small ritual. Slipping my phone into airplane mode is step one. This isn’t arrogance. It’s insurance to protect myself from several very powerful distractions. The second step of my ritual is to remove my work day clothing in exchange for something more durable, a pair of old grey sweatpants and fuzzy slippers usually does the trick. The third step consists of setting the lighting temperature through a calibrated orchestration of the various lighting options that exist in my father’s residence. Once complete I flip the channel to the Lakers broadcast, rest the remote control on the wing of the couch, puff my pillow, and prepare myself for the delicious treat to come. I’m sure the following does not come as a surprise, but this is not how the night ends. No, as I drip a full serving of the broccoli soup, a soup that I have been craving all day, into one of the spotless dishes on the clean side of my father’s sink, I suddenly notice that the lip of the dish I am pouring into is tinted in some kind of pasty white gel. I try to stop the soup from touching it, but the gunk has already entered the bowl, mixing in with my precious broccoli soup. Crestfallen I open the cupboard and check to see if there is anything to eat. Other than some open bags of potato chips and several other items that have been inside the cupboard since the last time my father lived in the United States, there is only one thing, a can of tomato soup. I pick up the can and search for the expiration date. When I find the numbers I’m going to be deliberate, I say to myself as I turn the can around. I’m going to look right between their eyes.